


I'll Carry You Home

by reciprocityfic



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Richonne - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 07:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6275023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reciprocityfic/pseuds/reciprocityfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And he’s tempted to tell her, right there, for the first time…that he is wholly hers, now and forevermore.”  Rick and Michonne say ‘I love you’ for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Carry You Home

He’s angry, _blindingly_ angry, and it intensifies with every passing second that she’s not there, that she’s _gone_.  Everyone tries to calm him – Daryl talks to him in a tone more gentle and soothing than Rick thought he was capable of, Carol makes plans with Jesus and Sasha and Abraham and looks at him with a cool, steely gaze that attempts to assure him that they weren’t going to let them get away with this, that they would find them, kill them, and get her _back_.

But their attempts are fruitless without her there to temper his fury.  She’s the only one who’s had any effect on his emotions for a long time, even before the toothpaste and the mints and that night on the couch.  And without her there, it grows and grows unfettered, like some insidious weed.

Everyone tries to calm him.  Except Glenn, who sits in the corner of the room, a hand on a teary, pregnant Maggie’s knee.  They make brief eye contact, and Glenn gives him the slightest of nods.  Words that don’t have to be spoken pass between the two men, and Rick knows he understands.  Because, not even a week ago, it had been _him_ that was in this position, hadn’t it?  Empty, powerless, nothing to do other than hope and pray to a God who has long forsaken this world that everything would turn out okay.

Rick’s anger multiples a hundred fold when the planning group looks up from their makeshift map and tells the group that they can’t leave now, that they have to wait a few hours so their arrival is covered by nightfall, just as it was the last time, when they brought Gregory’s faux head.  He marches over to their table, snatches their papers in his tense hands, gets in Abraham’s face and is about to absolutely _explode_ when Daryl dashes over and wraps his arms around Rick’s body, murmurs lowly in his ear that they’re _right_ , that they have to be smart about this.  That she deserves for them to be smart about this.

So Daryl walks him back to the house, pushes him inside and tells him to rest before they do this thing.  Tries to convince him that he’ll need it.  And then Daryl plops down on the front steps, and sends Carl around back, to make sure he doesn’t do anything rash, like decide to go out on his own, and get himself killed.

“Don’t be stupid,” Daryl drawls before Rick reluctantly closes the front door.  “She doesn’t need your stupidity right now.”

So he goes upstairs, walks into his ( _their_ ) bedroom, lays down on the bed and reaches his hand over to her side, cold and made and empty.  He closes his eyes, holds back his tears, and promises himself that he will not cry until she is back in his arms, safe and warm and loved.

But he can’t rest, of course.  Because everyone minute that ticks by is another minute where they could be too late.  So he rises, paces around the room wildly for about fifteen minutes, contemplates crawling out a side window and making a run for it, before deciding to go talk to his son.

When the back door creaks open, Carl jumps up, turn and glares at his father.

“Don’t make me pull my gun on you.  I don’t want to, but if I have to, I will.”

Rick somehow finds the strength to roll his eyes.

“Relax.  I came out to talk to you.”

They sit down in the grass, and Rick brings his legs up, resting his forearms on his knees.  He feels Carl’s gaze on him.

“What?” he grunts.

“Is this how you felt whenever Judith and I get in trouble?  Or mom, when she was alive?”

“Kind of,” he answers quietly.  “I obviously love you and Judith differently than I do your mother or Michonne.”

It physically pains him to say her name out loud.

“What about between the two of them, though?  It’s the same?”

“Kind of,” he repeats.  “Every relationship is…unique.  You feel the same type of love, but in different ways.”

“You do love her, though.  Don’t you?  Michonne, I mean.”

He pauses. His heart stops and then starts up again in double time, hurting so profoundly that he wants to curl up and die.

“Yeah,” he whispers, his voice breaking.  He looks up at the sky, lifts his hands and rubs them over his face.  “Yeah, I love her.”

Carl nods.

“We’re going to be okay,” he declares.  “Whatever happens, we’re going to be okay.”

Rick looks at him, half-smiles in solidarity, but for the first time in a while, he doesn’t know if that’s true.    
He doesn’t know if he’ll survive that kind of loss again.  He’ll have to, of course, for the sake of his children.  But he doesn’t know how he’ll be.  _Who_ he will be.

He closes his eyes, promises himself that he won’t cry.  Not yet.

*             *             *

He breaks that promise, sort of.  He is unable to wait until he holds her.

Instead, the tears start rolling down his cheeks as he simply touches her, as he removes the rope tied around her ankles and wrists.  He removes that awful black cloth from her mouth, and she stares at him, eyes wide, like she still can’t believe that he’s here, that she’s okay.

She murmurs shakily, hoarsely, “ _Rick_.”

And that makes him sob, as he pulls her into his arms, cradles her against his chest, and rocks them back and forth, too fast to be soothing.  Instead, it’s a speed that is evidence of how much he missed her, needs her, will protect her with every moment of the rest of his years spent on this apocalyptic earth.

She chants his name over and over again, like it’s the only thing she knows how to say.

And he’s tempted to tell her, right there, for the first time, that he loves her.  That he’s always loved her and he’ll always love her and that he is wholly hers, now and forevermore.

The words are on his tongue, but he bites them back.  Because he doesn’t want her to think that they’re said out of desperation, or a whirlwind of sweet relief.  He wants her to know that he loves her not because she was gone, or because he rescued her, but because she is _her_.

He puts two finger under her chin and lifts her face from where it rests against his beating heart, studies her eyes and knows that she is aware of his feelings, that she doesn’t need any statements right now.  That all she needs is for him to hold her and kiss her and lie to her, telling her that everything would be alright for the rest of their lives.

So that’s what he does.  He presses his lips to the top of her head, and sighs.

*             *             *

He carries her home that night, because he wants to and he loves her.  She’s so tired that she agrees, with a smile that makes his heart grow ten sizes.  He walks through the empty streets with her in his arms, the cool air of the autumn night caressing their skin, and he wishes that the road would never end, that they would be stuck in this moment forever, her hands around his neck, her face buried in the crook of his shoulder, the remnants of her smile still playing on the corners of her lips.

But the road does end, and he walks them through the front door of their house.  Daryl stands in the kitchen, munching on something Carol whipped up, and they pass him as they make their way up the stairs.  A rare smile appears on his face, and he gives the couple a tiny wave.  Michonne’s eyes are closed, and she doesn’t see it, but Rick does, and smiles back.

When they reach their bedroom, he lays her on the bed gingerly.  Denise examined her – she is perfect health wise, another marvel in the series of miracles that had occurred that day.  But she is still sore, so he is incredibly gentle.  He strips her of her old, dirty clothes and leaves her naked on the bed.  Not in a sexual way, but in a way that tells her that she is safe, that he is here, that she is _home_.

He had asked her on the way back if she wanted to take a shower, with the promise that he’d assists her, if she wanted him to.  But she shook her head, said that there would be a time for showers, and talking and eating and healing, but for now, she just wanted to sleep.

So he throws back the comforter and then tucks the blankets around her.  She lays on her side, turns towards his side of the bed, and he takes off his own clothes before joining her beneath the sheets.

She stares at him, like she’s seeing him again for the first time.  He reaches out, laces their fingers together.

“What is it?” he wonders aloud.

“Nothing,” she assures him, another smile appearing on her face.  “I just missed you.  That’s all.”

He brings her hands to his mouth, presses his lips against her fingers in a way that says, _I missed you, too.  More than you will ever know._

They lay there for a few moments in silence, holding hands, enjoying each other’s presence.  A question bubbles to his lips.  He hesitates.

“I know we agreed not to talk about it, for now.  But I do want to ask you one thing, if that’s okay.”

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath before nodding.

“Were you scared?” he whispers.  “When they took you – when they had you – were you scared?”

She looks down, squeezes his hands a little tighter.

She finally answers, “No.”

“How?” he inquires immediately.  The concept is unfathomable to him.  He would be _terrified_ – that he wouldn’t be there for his kids, for _her_ , for his adopted family.  That he would have to trust someone else to protect them, that they wouldn’t love them like he did, that they wouldn’t do a good enough job.  That they would let something _happen_ to them.

Her simple answer interrupts his thought.

“I knew you would come get me.”

He stops, stares at her for a moment in awe and disbelief.  He feels tears pool in his eyes, and then he pulls himself on top of her, tenderly so he still supports his own weight, and kisses her, hard.  Like he’s never kissed her before and he’ll never kiss her again.

“I love you,” he proclaims, salt water rolling down his face, dripping and landing on her cheeks.  He leans down and kisses her again.

“So much,” he says against her lips.  “I love you so much.”

She pushes his face away from hers, and he panics briefly before he sees the look in her eyes, like he is the most precious thing left in this world.  He’s not, but he thanks whatever high power there may be that she thinks he is.

She holds his face, trails her fingers over his cheeks, along his jawline, and wipes his tears away with the pads of her thumbs.

“I love you, too,” she breathes, and the quiet joy that graces her features makes his stomach twist in the best way.  He can’t help but grin, and he can’t help but think of that night on the couch not so long ago, the same looks on both of their faces.  And he does the same thing that he did then.

He leans down, and kisses her.


End file.
